Silence in London
by Zephoria
Summary: Brief one-shot. The Doctor calls a friend to warn him about some aliens that seem to have been following him. Reviews welcomed, and if you guys like it, I may add more chapters.


Crazy fic written as a result of a GIF set on Tumblr by letmartyhandlethis.

* * *

"Listen to me, and listen very very carefully. If you see these creatures, these monsters - you will not be able to remember them, no matter how hard you may try." The Doctor urged him over the phone.

"_What do you mean, I will not be able to remember? Unless I find the information pointless, I would never forget something."_ The rich voice on the other end of the line spoke up, a touch of indignation present.

"You'll have to just trust me, if never before in your life - please trust me now. I will get there as soon as possible, but you have to remain guarded. Once you see one, do not look away. Mark down somewhere a count of how many times you've seen it."

"_If I don't know what it looks like, and if I cannot 'remember', then what good will that do me_?"

"It's um," The Doctor held the receiver in place between his shoulder and head while he fiddled about with a control here and a knob there. The image of The Silence appeared. "It's like an old 1970's version of a Martian, but grey and a bit taller. About six feet. Listen, I've located the last few remaining in London and they are near your apartment. They probably have been manipulating either you, your brother, or both of you so some time now. Just mark down every time you see them, and when new marks appear - leave the area you are in. Try to isolate yourself from them. Be there quick as a wink." The Doctor disconnected and threw switches on and turned dials and knobs to all sorts of ways.

* * *

Exasperated, Sherlock looked at the now dead phone in his hand. What was he to make of his slightly crazy but brilliant acquaintance suddenly calling him out of the blue. Was it a practical joke? No, the Doctor was more brilliant then that - certainly he would not stoop so low. There was a real urgency and seriousness in his voice that Sherlock simply could not decipher. Granted, he could never quite understand the Doctor, they had only met twice before - both times under unusual circumstances. Either way, it was high time to return to the flat for a spot of evening tea and bit of John's favourite television show. He had spent enough time with this particular corpse to discern that the death was merely an accident, and he sent a text to Lestrade on his way out of the morgue.

Suddenly a flicker. No, it was just him turning off the light, that is all. The Doctor merely spooked him, placing ideas of shadows and nothing more in his head. He shrugged on his overcoat and tucked in his scarf. The weatherman had said it would be a warm day, but he was obviously an idiot. Sherlock turned around and locked the door, and as he did he noticed two black marks on his left hand.

"How very strange," Sherlock muttered to himself. He lifted his hand near his face and immediately smelt the clear odor of a permanent marker, but he didn't have such a thing on his person, did he? He recalled what the Doctor had said about the 'creatures' making a person forget things, is that what happened to him? '_Nonsense_', Sherlock thought to himself as he straightened up and walked down the hallway. He had just gotten to the stairs when he placed his hand in his pocket to fiddle about with his flat keys; and felt a pen. Sherlock pulled it out and got up the flight of stairs to the first floor and the exit to the building in order to inspect the object in the light. It was a black sharpie that Sherlock could have sworn he did not have earlier. In addition to the pen he found that there was a note, scrawled hastily in his own hand. '_This is you, you will not remember writing the note. The Doctor was right. Make best speed to the flat.'_

Sherlock looked at the note uncomfortably, and the longer he looked the more uneasy he felt. There was no doubt it was his handwriting, but when did he ever write that? Perhaps he was going crazy. He took the last few steps to the door and walked through the rear exit of Bart's. He locked the door and absently looked at the paper before going to throw it in the bins. Was it his imagination or was there more writing then there had been? '_You are writing this at half past 6, you have just shut the rear door and locked it. There are two. Go to the flat._'

He looked at his watch. It wasn't but two minutes past six-thirty. Time to trust the Doctor - there was no point in denying what seemed the only logical answer to everything that was happening. On his way, he pulled out his phone and texted John, just to figure out where he might be; whether at the flat, a 'friends', Stamford's, or a late night at work.

* * *

By the time that Sherlock arrived home, he had only two new tally marks on his hand. A look at the piece of paper he had said that it was the same '_creature_' and that it seemed to be following him. The last time Sherlock spotted it was just outside his door next to Speedy's. Mrs. Hudson was away on a short holiday, and John had his keys with him, so Sherlock carefully locked and the doors that lead into the flat. He walked upstairs and locked that door as well.

He already had a plan to ensure that the flat was clean, free from this 'grey alien-esque man in an expensive suit' as his note-self took to calling the one that followed him. He would clean off the tally marks on his hand and take the pen with him along with a notepad. Then he would go room to room, checking everywhere that a man of that height could safely conceal himself. If there were any tally marks on his arms, then the room would not be safe. Since the Doctor would met him at his flat, there would possibly no safer place in London. That coupled with John returning from shopping; yes, it would be best to stay.

Sherlock went first in John's room, scanning everything and checking every corner and under the bed. He stood underneath the doorjamb and looked at his arm. Not a single mark. Locking the door, he went on to his own bedroom and searched in the same manner. Repeat results as John's room. Lastly would be a cursory look at the kitchen and lab area before settling down in a corner of the living room to keep an eye on the overall flat.

The Lab area was clean and the kitchen was, the kitchen was not. He looked down at his hand while facing the sofa and found two new tally marks. So not just a lone grey man anymore, now he had brought company. Sherlock glanced at a mounted wall clock; John would be back at the flat at any minute. He reached into his pocket and fished out his phone, quickly punching in a text to John.

'_There is someone here in the flat. Stay away. -SH'_

Sherlock knew that this would be more then enough to bring him screaming over to the flat, hopefully John would be able to assist him in ridding himself of the creatures.

Sherlock looked up from where he was on the couch. How had he gotten on the couch? Why did he have black marks on his arms? Something was not right, not one bit. He felt uneasy, almost sick to his stomach and he was not sure why. There was someone in the flat with him. Maybe in the kitchen? '_Lets turn on the telly, shall we?_' Sherlock found himself thinking that over and over again and couldn't help himself in turning it on. He felt so strange, like he was having trouble forming coherent thought patterns.

He was laying back on the couch, left forearm covered in black tally marks. Was someone pounding up the stairs? It was really important that that person not be allowed into the room. It wasn't safe. Nowhere was safe.

* * *

The door to the flat burst open, slamming rudely against the wall. John Watson stood with a bag of groceries in one hand, flat keys in the other. "Sherlock, where are they?" John asked, painfully out of breath.

"Hmm? Where are who?" Sherlock felt so tired, so very tired. He left his arm loll back down over the couch, black tally marks covering it.

"What the hell are those?" John dropped his grocery bag - now forgotten - and stepped quickly over to Sherlock's side. "What is going on?!"

"What, these?" Sherlock glanced dazed at his arm, "These are very important. As for what is going on I-" Sherlock cut off, the haze over his eyes clearing as he looked up at John and just past his shoulder. Dropping his voice low and refusing to break eye contact with those 'things' he pulled himself upright. "Whatever you do, do not try to fight them, it only makes matters worse and I fear they may have no reservations about dispensing you."

"What are you talking about?" John's voice rose a bit, perhaps Sherlock was trying some new drug to test the various side effects.

"Turn around slowly, and once you do, do not cease looking at them."

John did as he was asked and felt a bit faint. Standing mere meters behind him were two insanely tall pale grey monsters. Monsters being the only word that could come to his mind. "Sherlock," his voice wavered a bit as his survival instincts began to kick in. "What are they doing in the kitchen?"

"That doesn't matter, what matters is that you do not look away. If you do, then you will forget that you ever saw them."

"That's ridiculous, how could I for-" John had turned, voice full of incredulity, towards Sherlock. "I'm sorry, what was I saying?"

"Turn around John," Sherlock looked amused.

"What f-" John saw to his horror and a tad bit revulsion, two tall pale grey men in the kitchen. "What is going on?!"

"Doesn't matter, I'm here now!" A cheery voice called from a point just down the stairs.

"Ah, we are in luck, a Doctor come to save us." Sherlock's voice hinted at sarcasm.

"Quite right you are. Hello Sherlock, and Dr Watson I presume. I'm the Doctor and I've come to fix your problem."

* * *

A/N: It was really hard for me to write like Sherlock merely because my command of British terminology is not as good as, well, someone from Britian. Any comments or criticism that can help improve this story will be greatly appreciated and I will give you all dues credit. Thank you for taking the time to read the story.


End file.
